the missing moment
by reenka
Summary: a confrontation between harry and draco leads to some painful realizations, and long overdue decisions about their respective destinies and their responses to the responsibility of desire. SLASH.
1. Default Chapter

disclaimer: jk rowling owns everything, though i'd like to think she'd loan them to worthy individuals in a "play nice and return un-beheaded" sort of way. well probably not, but hey.  
warnings: slash. slash.... more slash... slashier... oooh. H/D  
much snippetness and randomness and "what the hell -is- this plotless thing, anyway"ness.  
bewarned.  
a/n: for once -not- really connected with timeline of present fic i'm writing. if it doesn't sound at all like h/d -tell me-. i'll cry but i'm a big girl, i can take it, heh.  
  
  
  
  
~the missing moment~  
  
  
  
And a thousand angels on a pin could dance, you would find them... and a thousand nights could go by, and each night another hope. Nothing would change. The world revolves as it always did, known or unknown, steady upon its axis. Harry knew the way things were-- he'd always known, the moment he saw him. Each day he'd believed change was possible, or even desireable, was a day stolen from himself, a day he'd tried gladly forgetting who he really was, and what he had to end up doing. The sun rose in the morning, and set in the evening. And he hated the boy who would never be a part of his world.  
  
It had to be like this.... He'd given everything he could. He'd tried, and he'd failed, and he knew when to give up. He told himself this over and over-- part of winning was knowing when to quit. It didn't quite make sense, but it had to. He didn't know if he believed in free will or in destiny. He tried to think he didn't have a destiny, but everyone seemed to try pinning one on him anyway. He had no evidence, really, that what he wanted mattered. He got what he really needed. He'd gotten love, and recognition, acceptance, comraderie. It was really childish to want his wildest dreams to touch upon reality. He should've known dreams were best left to night-time and forgetting-- he should've known, when Dumbledore had found him, and took him away, that time. If he was meant to have his heart's desire, he would've had nothing to see in that mirror except himself.   
  
"We lost our innocence long ago, didn't we?", he said suddenly.  
  
"Speak for yourself, Potter. I never had it," the wooden reply came.  
  
"No. I suppose you didn't. When did you ever think you were free to choose? That's the essential innocence, isn't it?"  
  
"No need to wax intellectual about any of this. It's pretty simple, really, isn't it?"  
  
"Ha. Well... I suppose everything is simple in the end. I suppose the game still remains for us, and who are we to pretend we could stop playing, isn't that right, Malfoy?"  
  
"I'm not playing. I'm part of the game. I control the game."  
  
"You think you do, don't you? That's the problem, isn't it? You and your illusions of control...."  
  
"None of this matters. I want you."  
  
"You don't," Harry said, shaking his head calmly. "You can't. Not like this. Who do you think I am? Some skewed reflection? Some hated mirror image you can't escape? Is that what you think?"  
  
"If you believe that...."  
  
"I don't. I just want you to tell me. I need you to tell me. Show me."  
  
Draco advanced, lithe and confident and unstoppable. He stopped inches from Harry, his head inclined, his hand dashing out to seize Harry's chin, turn it to the side. "You're mine, aren't you."  
  
Harry wrenched his head away, hissing, "How dare you? How dare you say that?"  
  
"You are mine. I am yours.... I am alone, but I'm doomed. I can never escape you."  
  
"Don't be so sure. You're making that choice, right now."  
  
"What do you know?"  
  
"What, indeed?"  
  
"Enough. You know enough of me."  
  
"I don't think so. And neither do you, Draco. Neither do you."  
~~  
  
Is there a reason that the past ultimately, has to permanently change us, Harry thought. Does it have to encapsulate us? What is there to do, now that all the roads seem either taken or blocked. The exits deserted, all the alarms set off. What remains? Who are we, now? I know we can't be what we were, but what does that make us? Why is this so bloody hard? Why can't I see even ten steps ahead of me? What am I missing here?  
  
"So what is it," Harry said. "What's the missing piece of the puzzle? What are you hiding, Draco?"  
  
"Nothing. You know everything you need."  
  
"Oh no. You don't get away with that. You haven't done nearly enough. You haven't even tried. We haven't even started. This is all bullshit. Bloody nonsense. We haven't done anything right since the time we started, Malfoy. This has all been an elaborate play, with two-bit hacks as players. We can do better than this. I know we can."  
  
"You're delusional. I'm telling you the truth, finally. There's no way out."  
  
"You expect me to just take that? What kind of fool do you take me for? Wait. I don't want an answer," Harry said, ruefully.  
  
"There aren't any secrets or loopholes this time, Potter. We are trapped. Get out if you can."  
  
"You're bloody insane, you know that?"  
  
"Well, you don't have to hang around, do you."  
  
"Yes well, you've made sure of that, haven't you."  
  
"Like you couldn't tell I was lying."  
  
"Well. Actually I couldn't."  
  
"It's not like I wasn't obvious, Potter, by Merlin, I tried every trick in the book to get your attention," Draco said, sullenly.  
  
"In the kindergartener's manual, you mean," Harry said, smirking now.  
  
"Oh sod off."  
~~  
  
They met for the last time, in their usual room, in the Astronomy Tower. The sun was rising on a cold winter's morning, and their breath was forming intricately swirling clouds in the still, cool air. The last year and nothing had changed. They were leaving for home, for the break, tomorrow, and nothing had changed. The weight of the future was becoming unbearable, deafening and blinding and immobilizing. The weight of the past was best not even considered, but they couldn't help considering it. They couldn't help returning to it, over and over again, all their mistakes, their battles, their miscalculations. Together or separately, their sense of failure lent itself to a futile sort of obsessive analysis. It wasn't fun, but it seemed inevitable. Here they were, in the number one snogging spot in Hogwarts, wasting their time enumerating the ifs, ands, and buts. As per usual.  
  
"Do you not hate me for wanting you? Do you not think I'm a hopeless wanker?"  
  
"Do you not pity me for not fighting you, anymore? Do you not think I'm a desperate loser?"  
  
"No...," Draco whispered. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry...."  
  
"You're just sorry for yourself, aren't you. And it's a bit late for that, anyway, isn't it? ," he said, his mouth thin and resolute. "If you needed me you would've sought me out. You knew what you were doing, didn't you? Didn't you? What did you think, that I was secretly knowing what you actually meant? That I would always react exactly as you wanted? Am I a puppet to be discarded and then played with again?"  
  
The other boy's face fell, and he turned away, his shoulders stiff, his posture defeated. "If that's how you want it...."  
  
"How dare you?! How dare you say this has anything to do with what I would've wanted? This never had anything to do with what -I- wanted, it was always about -you-, wasn't it? What -you- could handle and what -you- found wrong and what -you- found right. You say I'm always with you, but that's such a cop-out. -I'm- not what's with you. Your fantasies are with you," the dark boy spit out.  
  
He could tell his tirade was driving the other to the brink of tears, but he was beyond caring. This had gone on long enough. He was tired. Hurting one another's feelings was now matter-of-course. How could they avoid it? Where could this possibly go but to hell, considering how stubborn they both were?  
  
"I just want you to know that I do care about you, I really, really do...," the blond boy whispered, seeming to be swallowing tears.  
  
The dark-haired one closed his eyes, trying to fight his own pain, failing. "Why did it have to come to this? Why did I have to end up being like this? This... is just... so wrong...."  
  
"It would never have worked out anyway," the blond said, petulantly. "You know it, don't you."  
  
"I don't know that. I don't know anything. Though obviously you do. Obviously you know enough, don't you, enough to redeem or destroy. It's all in your power. All I can do is accept it or deny it, but the choice is ultimately yours, isn't it?," the dark-haired one said bitterly.  
  
"I don't have any power," the other whispered, hardly audible. "I can't do anything. I can't even move. I'm pathetic. What are you doing with me?"  
  
"Nothing. Paying you back for the living hell you made out of my existence by not leaving you alone, I guess, since that seems to be what you really think is inevitable, you bastard."  
  
"I just... want you... I lied... I lied about everything... but I'm not lying now...."  
  
The dark haired boy looked at the smaller-looking, fragile form sitting on the chair, still half-turned away from him. His voice was mostly flat, with breaks and dips at strange points. He felt his heart constrict and his throat tighten. He reached out, touching the other's shoulder. The boy jumped, his eyes wild all of a sudden. He turned, breathing heavily, to face his avowed object of desire.  
  
"Don't touch me!", he cried. "Don't touch me... touch me... only if you mean it...."  
  
The hand dropped, its fingers spreading, to rest on a knee, the eyes closing. He was so tired, so very tired of fighting the other, and himself. He wanted to give in again, feel the burn, let the passion mend the ragged edges, smooth the raw, fragile connections. He wanted to feel the relief of finally being able to communicate without impediment. He wanted to feel the other's desire, fresh and fiery against his mind. He wanted to lose himself in the rightness of it, the ease of the joining of such disparate parts to form such a seamless whole. It was dense, and hot, and loud inside him, the clamor to let go of reasons and consequences. This had always worked before. He could just let it work again. The morning would be different, but... every morning was new, wasn't it? Couldn't he prevent what he knew was coming, just because he knew it? Harry saw his folly, and wished he didn't, at that moment, more than anything. The edge of his passion was cutting into him, driving him close to paralysis, unable to resolve his conflicting desires. He just wanted things to make sense again.  
  
"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I don't mean to give you the wrong idea. I don't know what it is. I slip sometimes. I mean it, just... not the way I should. You don't really mean it the way you should either, do you."  
  
"I do mean it!" The voice was sounding more and more ragged to the dark boy's ears, and he could feel it. If he took one more step, things were going to break. Break so far, there was no telling if either of them could ever put themselves back together again....  
  
"No. I don't care anymore. It -hurt-, those things you did. You can't take them back. You can't just explain them. Those years of hating-- those don't go away in hindsight. You can't paint over them with pastel colors. They're ugly and they're here to stay." He took a deep breath, steadying himself. " -You- aren't ugly, Draco," he said, "and -you- will always have hope for a beautiful future-- but you can't just say, the past wasn't really what it seemed-- yes it's always different for everybody, everybody has a different idea of what was -really- going on, so what. That's always how it is. For -me-, it was as if your reality didn't exist. For me, it didn't. And that's just something you'll have to deal with."  
  
There was only silence. The blond boy looked more and more remote, and soon he would turn and leave, not saying anything more for who knows how long. The other was getting desperate, desperate for a way out, a reaction, a solution-- something he'd missed, something vital only a response from the object of his pain could add. His words tumbled out faster, stumbling over themselves, tinged with a kind of hopeless honesty.  
  
"I can't tell you the future, even if you think you can tell -me- the future-- and the past. I can't say where we'll be, or what we'll become. We can only be who we are, isn't that true, Draco? I am who I am," he said, almost angry now. "You have to deal with that. I'm not who I would've been, had you been honest with me or yourself. I'm not that person. And -you're- not that person either. You are Draco Malfoy, The Boy Who Lied, and if you thought there was a good and noble reason, or a selfish and cowardly reason, it doesn't matter, does it. What's past is past."  
  
"I never made any promises," the blond said, finally, so quietly it was almost swallowed by the raging silence suffocating them both.  
  
"No. No you didn't. And I never expected any. What the hell did you think I wanted? Do you think -I- know that? Why can't you... why can't you just do what you want?"  
  
"I can't. I just, can't."  
  
"You want it, don't you. You want me to leave you to your fate. You want me to be just like everyone else. You would finally be complete in your self-made destiny. Your dark sacrifice to yourself. Well, you're welcome to it. I'm done with this." Please tell me you don't want this, Harry thought, finally. Or, don't tell me. Don't tell me. Show me. Please, please show me. No more words. No more, no more. Make me stay, he thought. Make me stay, Draco.  
  
"Goodbye, then."  
  
It hurt, still. Even knowing it was inevitable. Even knowing there wasn't really any solution, knowing if there was he'd have thought of it. It still seemed horribly wrong and unfair and cruel, and it wasn't even anyone's fault. Is it our fault, the things we do to ourselves, he thought. Is it wrong, really? Or is it just us?  
  
He wasn't crying. He was empty. He stared at the door to one side, the window to the other. At that moment, it seemed everywhere he turned, was another exit. Another excuse to leave. He was just prolonging it-- he was just being stubborn. All he had to do was take it. Accept it, that even if both of them didn't want this, even if both of them were frightened and hurt by it, neither of them could prevent this. Wanting, even so much, didn't make any difference if one wasn't prepared to overcome oneself, become someone greater. Someone capable of moving against the current of oneself. Harry was only just learning the extent of the strength required of him. He wasn't at all sure he was able to rise to the challenge, but he knew he had no choice. There was no Dark Lord, no inevitable death waiting for him. He knew it was in his power to stop it, and he knew that knowledge lent him the responsibility. And that was the difference between them. Harsh. Inevitable.   
  
His fingers clenching, Harry reached for the doorknob.  
  
"I have nothing to give you," Draco had said, when they'd started. "I can't even give you myself, even if I wanted to."  
  
"Don't die, at least," Harry said now, his voice a strange mixture of simmering anger and a coldness, already settling over him.  
  
He didn't look back until he'd gone around the first corner, and even then, only because he knew there was nothing to see. And there wasn't. Swallowing the rest of his words, he lengthened his stride. 


	2. failure becomes you

disclaimer: JKR says lots of things that I don't. actually she said most of it. And she owns all of it. This is just one of those things she'd never say. But still, one can hope, no?  
  
warning: SLASH. H/D.  
  
a/n: inspired by: "How many different ways can one emotion fail you?" ~~in dialogia, ivy blossom  
sankyouuuu ivy:)  
~~  
  
~~failure becomes you~~  
  
Why should I cry for you?   
Why would you want me to?   
And what would it mean to say,   
That, "I loved you in my fashion"?   
~~Sting  
  
Harry was being brave about it. He went on with life. He shoved his so-called `weakness' as deep inside him as it would go, tried to find a lock to bind it with, tried to swallow the key. The key kept flying out of his throat, tasting like tears, like bile, like dust. His head was filled with noise, inconsequential thoughts, and he barely remembered to follow one thread for longer than a few minutes at a time. If he did, he heard the whispers. Draco, Draco, Draco. His head would snap around, feeling like he was being watched, but he never was. Draco was usually just leaving. He'd catch the swish of his robes as he turned a corner, the sound of his mocking laugh echoing in the halls. He'd clench his jaw, and stare purposefully at his dinner, but then he'd hear a strange tapping sound, and when he'd finally look, it would be the sound of his fork hitting the table repeatedly, instead of what was on his plate.  
  
I wish I could stop being angry at you, Harry thought. I wish I could just, get -over- it already. You're not worth this. You're not worth another second, you bastard. Do you even know? Do you even know that the smallest word, the slightest poison glance, just the lack of one, even-- do you have any clue what it does to me? How I ache, whether you're near me or apart? Do you know the nights I spend, going over and over every stupid thing we've said to each other, combing it all for clues as to what you're really thinking? Do you know how the unthinking shifting of your gaze away from me, so minute, so subtle-- do you know how it cuts me? Do you care? You don't, I know that. You only care about yourself, I know that. Why can't I believe it, finally? Why can't I rest in the peace of knowing that you're an unredeemeable bastard, not worth my time?   
  
Why do I want you to look at me, just -look- at me, one more time. Why do I stand around, trying to find something to do, something to say, a face to wear that doesn't let on, that I'm only here to tempt you, to ask you without asking, to beg you to reconsider who you are and who you think you have to be. Why do I play the fool like this, even as I hate myself for it? Why do I allow myself this idiotic dance with self-destruction? I have much weightier things to consider. Much to plan, much to be prepared for. And yet all I can think is, how unprepared I am for that look in your eyes. Iced over, distant, not even sneering, just ignoring my very existence as if that's what you've always done. I want to scream, my toes and my fingers are tingling with that helpless, painful desire. I look at you, walking away, or half-turned to the side, or even right in front of me, and I just feel the scream, biding its time, waiting within my throat.  
  
It's hopeless, he thought, it's hopeless, it's hopeless, it's hopeless. He repeated it over and over, sometimes a mantra, sometimes a wish. He didn't want to imagine. What if. What if he pushed him down, tumbled him onto the stone-cold floor, pressed his burning mouth against his neck, breathed his need and hope and greed for him so deep, so deep inside him. The truth burns and cauterizes and heals-- it doesn't just, fade away. It doesn't just, not matter. These same fingers, heated from the barest contact with his skin, these same fingers on the verge of twisting around his wrist, tugging him back from the brink. All he had to do was pull hard enough. All he had to do was move fast enough, wasn't that true? Harry closed his eyes, leaning against a shadowed stone wall. On the Quidditch field, all he had to do was concentrate, and -move-, and if he was fast enough, if he was fearless, if he was single-minded enough, he won. And now speed meant he missed the details, and single-mindedness meant he was blind to his feelings, and movement-- movement meant moving away.  
  
By the time anything moved, Harry was snapping at shadows, his eyes dulled with a sort of perpetual wounded glaze of the hounded, bags starting to form under them, his hands very lightly trembling. He kept them shoved into his robes, and his bedraggled state was easily attributable to the many stressors in his life, and of course the end of the semester and all those senior projects to get done. Draco walked up to him casually, seemingly popping up out of nowhere, as he was walking back to the Gryffindor dorms. It took a second for Harry to even realize Draco was there, so out of it was he. He started, coming to a sudden halt, no sound leaving him, not even a small gasp.   
  
"You," he said, though it came out as more of a croak, really.  
  
"Yeah, what do you know. Me."  
  
"Didn't we go through this already?"  
  
"Through it? I was about to avoid it, personally."  
  
"Oh, good. Well go on then. Don't let me stop you."  
  
"Now who's being juvenile, eh, Potter?"  
  
"Well. We have nothing to say to each other, do we? We've said it all, haven't we?"  
  
"If that's how you want it." He was having a long-suffering look Harry had come to find so ridiculous on Draco's face now.  
  
"This has absolutely nothing to do with want, you know that."  
  
"Oh, don't get all angsty on me now, Potter. I was having a good day," Draco said, his lip curling in something that was almost a sneer.  
  
"Well, that's just brilliant. I'm glad. So what are you doing speaking with -me-?"  
  
"Oh, -please-. Why does this have to be an interrogation, every bloody time?"  
  
Harry didn't meet his eyes. "I just want to know," he said under his breath.  
  
"Why can't you let it go, just once? You bring it all on yourself, you know."  
  
"I don't make you be how you are, Malfoy, don't you even -try- pinning your behavior on me. I won't have it," Harry said, in his most self-confident tone, crossing his arms.  
  
Draco laughed, looking at him. "So the great Harry Potter is reduced to petty posturing, huh," he said with a smile.  
  
"I'm tired...." Harry was suddenly feeling like standing up was an effort. He couldn't very well sink to the stone floor in front of Malfoy, of course, so he locked his knees and tried to stare like he meant it.  
  
"Yeah."  
  
Harry glanced up in surprise, but Draco's eyes were veiled, as usual.  
  
"I'm tired too. It seems like we're reliving the same day over and over again, with just enough different to make it interesting. I think I've forgotten what the point was."  
  
"Why can't we just stop? Why can't you just-- leave it be?"  
  
"I want it to be your decision, Harry."  
  
"Hah. Somehow I don't think that's out of the goodness of your heart."  
  
"Of course not. I have my dignity after all," Draco huffed.  
  
"We can't be friends, can we."  
  
"Of course not!" Draco looked alarmed at the very idea.  
  
Harry smiled, in that thin, humorless way he'd picked up. "Why does everything have to be up to -me-?" He glanced heavenwards at this, too resigned to manage much indignation.  
  
"Hmm, I didn't realize you were -this- self-absorbed," Draco remarked, quite conversationally.  
  
Harry just gave him a -look-. "What the hell are you getting out of this?"  
  
"Why do you keep obsessing over that?"  
  
Harry stifled a sigh. "No reason. I wouldn't have to obsess if you didn't keep following me," he said, at which Draco had to laugh.  
  
"Oh that's rich-- me, following you. I can't get away from you, more like."  
  
Suddenly, Harry took a few steps, bringing him almost nose-to-nose with Malfoy. His arm whipped out, his palm hitting the wall next to Malfoy's head. "Oh, I can help you get away from me. It's easy." His face was leaning minutely closer to the other boy's, who was beginning to look faintly flushed. "Go ahead. Go," he whispered, his lips millimeters away from skin.  
  
"If you...." Draco cleared his throat. "If you wanted to seduce me, you didn't have to try so hard, you know."  
  
Harry gave a strangled little laugh. "Seduce you?" He turned away abruptly, his face hidden in shadow. "Yeah, right."  
  
"You know I want you," Draco whispered, reaching out and grasping Harry by the waist, pulling his back flush against his own chest. Harry was stiff and unmoving, but he didn't attempt to get away. "The question is, what are you going to do about it?"  
  
Harry's muscles seemed to relax a fraction, before he fought his way out of the loose embrace, turning back around, his eyes blazing fury. "How dare you do that to me?" He looked ready to inflict physical violence. Draco had to admit to a certain degree of surprise. He never knew what would set Harry off anymore.  
  
"Can't we just fuck without all the strings and the angst?" Draco smirked, amused at his own nonchalance.  
  
"It's too late for that, now. There's no going back to the way things were, before... before... this," Harry said, wearily. "And you don't even mean that, anyway. You just like fucking with my head, more than anything."  
  
"Aww, you're no fun," Draco whined in a soft, fake voice.  
  
"Go abuse a Hufflepuff, Malfoy," Harry snapped. "As you so keenly observed, I'm no fun."  
  
Draco folded his arms across his chest and tried to look cross, though the effect was mostly comical. "And you tell -me- to lighten up."  
  
"Yeah, well. As fun as this is... I have Potions homework to amuse me, right now," Harry offered as his parting shot, walking away.  
  
"Fine! Be that way!" Draco was scowling, quite fiercely in fact, but he had the sneaking suspicion that if he wasn't, he'd be pouting. Some days, he just didn't understand why he must go through all this garbage, just to get laid. Of course, he realized, on some level, this was all largely his fault. But that didn't mean he couldn't feel resentful about it. Just thinking about Harry Potter, bent studiously over his Potions book, that unruly curl that always slipped over his right eye, up to its old tricks again, biting the corner of his bottom lip in concentration-- just flashing that image for three seconds in his mind, was quite enough to give him a hard-on that just wouldn't quit. "Fuck!" He muttered it like a sort of prayer, over and over under his breath. "Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, -fuck-!" This life has just -not- been going his way, at -all-, he mused. He didn't even know what he was being punished for. What in the world was going -on-, in that fevered, delirious Gryffindor brain of his?  
  
"Fuck," said Draco Malfoy with feeling, one more time, for good measure.   
~~  
  
Harry knew they were doomed from the start. He never wanted to, he never imagined he'd ever be stupid enough to. It "just happened". He supposed all sorts of things "just happened", and that was no excuse. Maybe Voldemort just happened, but that didn't mean he wasn't going to kill him. You can't just ignore the consequences. The consequence of Harry's own existence seemed to be Voldemort's death. It wasn't like he didn't remember, but he definitely didn't -want- to remember.  
  
It could've been any day of the week, it could've been any morning at all, but it wasn't. It was a Friday, and he wasn't paying attention in Potions, and Sirius was coming to visit that Saturday. He was paired with Neville, and of course the poor lad messed up horribly yet again. Malfoy laughed and said something that made Harry see red, and that was pretty much it. He didn't think, he just hexed him. It wasn't like he even realized he'd raised his wand-- and then Malfoy was on the ground, twitching pitifully.   
  
Harry felt as if a bucket of ice had been dumped on his head, but it was too late. Like Snape -needed- an excuse to torment Harry, but this just seemed almost -too- easy. He'd looked up, not daring to hope, and it was a good thing he didn't, because Snape eyes were pitch-black chips of volcanic rock, still burning. He didn't give away his fear, he thought, that was something. He'd shivered, and raised his chin slightly, and decided come what may, at least it couldn't get any worse, with Snape anyway. This was going to be as bad as it got, and it was good to get it over with, almost.  
  
Snape didn't raise his voice, of course, but there was some sort of faint smile teasing the corners of his lips, or maybe Harry just imagined that.   
  
"Well, Mr. Potter, it appears you've seen fit to assault your fellow students in class, now. What's next, casting unforgivable curses on first years? "  
  
"No Sir, I wasn't thinking Sir--" Harry figured cheek wasn't really going to be stood for right now, so his dignity was going to have to suffer. He backtracked as much as he could stand to.  
  
"I see. You weren't thinking. Well, you're going to have a chance to do a lot of thinking now, thankfully. Thinking about how having the ability to do something doesn't give even the Great Harry Potter the right to just do it at their merest whim," Snape said, with endless softness. He still seemed pretty calm. Too calm. The whole class seemed to be holding its breath as one, and no one moved. Snape seemed to be exuding some sort of field around his person, something that held every one of them in complete thrall.   
  
Harry was blinking quickly, feeling himself break out in cold sweat. This didn't usually happen when Snape was about to pronounce some new and particularly inventive form of punishment for an unlucky Gryffindor, Some sort of especially malevolent vibe was radiating off the dark visage of his Potions professor. Oh well, he was due for his next crisis right about now, he supposed. "Er--" started Harry, but Snape interrupted.  
  
"You'll be working with Malfoy, helping him on his final project this year. If he fails, so do you. Twenty-five percent of your grade will depend on his accessment of your assistance. The details of your responsibilities are up to him to decide on," Snape said, looking steadily into Harry's ever-widening eyes, seeming to dare him to speak against this.  
  
"Er--" Harry began, but he didn't really know what to say, so he swallowed and tried to pretend like the Slytherins weren't snickering like a really loud pack of malicious little rats, and their eyes weren't boring into his back, probably red and glowing and scary. "But--"  
  
Snape almost smiled, folding his arms across his chest languidly. "No buts. You start your 'apprenticeship' tomorrow night in this classroom, Mr. Potter. And if you want to run crying to the Headmaster over this, you're more than welcome of course, but I doubt he will be of much help in this instance."  
  
Harry closed his eyes, trying to look convincingly resigned. "Yes, Professor."  
  
"Good. Now, back to the properties of finely ground medusae eyeballs...."  
  
And that was that. Malfoy wasn't going to miss an opportunity to have the Great Harry Potter at his beck and call, of course. Oh no, he made every use of it he could think of, and some he didn't until Harry inadvertently inspired him. Those first few weeks were sheer hell. He started to have a habit of devising ten new ways to kill Draco Malfoy every night before he went to sleep. It soothed his nerves, though it didn't exactly inspire the sort of pleasant dreams he may have hoped for. Somehow, he managed to slither into his dreams, always glaring at him or asking him to fetch some ridiculously obscure ingredient that only grows at midnight in the middle of the Forbidden Forest, or maybe is hidden behind the secret door in Snapes private potions cupboard near his desk.  
  
He would dream of Malfoy ringed with snakes, or catching the Snitch, or laughing at him as he walked naked into Potions, late, always late. Harry didn't exactly notice when Malfoy stopped laughing-- perhaps it was when he started staring while Harry was awake, staring and refraining from comment. Harry didn't so much mind the staring bit-- everyone stared, one got used to it before it had the chance to drive them insane-- but most people didn't stare looking so intent. As if he were trying to memorize something particularly unpleasant about that tiny birthmark on Harry's left cheekbone. Malfoy stared, and Malfoy, increasingly, said nothing. Oh, he still deigned to give basic instructions, and to brusquely tell him to leave now, but he didn't really -taunt- him, except with the staring of course. Harry was getting more and more befuddled, and quite a bit disturbed.  
  
Until the night when he told him to stop, just as he was done with the prescribed mixing and chopping and torture for the evening, just as he was going out the door. Harry stopped, without turning around.   
  
"You don't have to come back, Potter," Malfoy said, his voice strangely even, without that usual sneering drawl. "I don't need your help. Have fun failing Potions without me-- you really don't need -my- help, at least for that." Was that a chuckle? Harry turned around, staring incredulously at the casual-looking boy still bent over a cauldron.  
  
"What's this about, Malfoy? I thought--"  
  
"You thought I was having fun as you mucked up all my hard work with your inept dabblings? No thank you. I'd rather have Fatbottom help me, if you don't mind." Malfoy had stopped his intermittent stirring and sniffing, and was facing him, leaning against the desk they'd been using.  
  
"Well, no.... But...."   
  
Harry was getting that weird, flustered feeling again. He hated being flustered, most especially by Snape or Malfoy. Most definitely by Malfoy. He glared at the composed, ever-smirking nemesis. Slimy git.  
  
"Potter, Potter, Potter," Malfoy drawled, shaking his head. "It seems you need a little-- encouragement. Who would've thought?" He stalked over to Harry, where he stood next to the wall by the door. "What a contrary bunch you Gryffindors are. Never know what's good for you, do you," he said, his voice lowering strangely.   
  
He was pressing against him now, -breathing- on him, and all Harry could do was stare, his mouth dry as his palms were not. He didn't know what one was supposed to do in this sort of situation, though he supposed he should just push Malfoy off him and get away as fast as humanly possible. In all likelihood this was Malfoy's plan-- if Malfoy -had- a plan. Maybe Malfoy was losing his mind, sort of like Harry was in danger of doing. Why did Malfoy have to smell of eucalyptus and lemon and something else tangy that Harry couldn't place, but it was certainly doing a good job of making him dizzy. He leaned his head against the wall. What was he supposed to be doing, again?  
  
Malfoy's breath was humid and blistering hot on Harry's cheek, next to his temple. The blond was hissing something, words or maybe mumbled formless curses. Somehow, Harry had ended up clutching someone's robes, his heart going record speed. He didn't think they were his own robes, but he couldn't seem to let go, for some reason. Malfoy licked along the edge of his ear, and before Harry knew it, he was clutching Malfoy himself, pulling him closer if possible, and moaning helplessly into his mouth. Which was by that point sinking into his, ridiculously wet and soft and deeply intoxicating, in the most addictive, stomach-churning, frightening way.  
  
And then Harry's fingers were knotting in fine, silvery hair, and his hips were having a mind of their own, grinding against the ones now pressing desperately against them, and his legs were shaking so much he would've fallen if he didn't have the wall to hold him up. It wasn't that he wanted to be taken-- and it wasn't that he wanted to take. He just wanted, overwhelmingly and completely, without even knowing what it was he was after.  
  
He still hadn't figured it out by the next day, or the day after that. Malfoy took every opportunity to amuse himself with the sight of him, flailing and arguing with himself and vowing to stop, because he had to stop, that much was always obvious. It usually lasted for as long as it took for Malfoy's body to be pressed against his, for his low hiss to be singeing his ear, for his tongue to be plunging heedlessly into his willing mouth, hot and deep and insistent.  
  
Harry never particularly thought thinking before doing, too much, was his problem. Rather, it tended to be the opposite. And thinking before doing Malfoy was even more counterproductive than some other things he could think of. There was just something about the utter lunacy of it all that got to him, though. It really seemed as if it was some other person, at first. It wasn't really him, licking Malfoy's inner thigh, or nipping at his collarbones, or fucking him frenziedly up against the wall of the Quidditch broom-shed.   
  
It was him, still him, who had to put up with Malfoy's insufferable name-calling and transparent ploys and not-so-amusing remarks in Potions and his casual remarks about the Dark Lord. It was Harry Potter who had to put up with Malfoy on almost a daily basis, and he really had no idea who that black-haired bloke was who was snogging the pale, slight fellow with the green scarf. Harry didn't feel he needed yet another crisis of identity, he was having a hard enough time accepting his apparent connection to Voldemort.  
  
It was a long time before either of them called the other by first name, and a much longer time before it became obvious that what they had was probably a "relationship", because they just couldn't seem to get enough, and no one else seemed appealing. Draco resented it, but accepted it quickly, since Harry was usually willing. Except Harry wasn't. Harry wasn't really willing.  
  
It was at the point where they started to become honest that they started to really become cruel. But by then, every time Harry said he was leaving, it had become a lie.  
~~ 


	3. silencio

disclaimer: JKR says lots of things that I don't. actually she said most of it. And she owns all of it. This is just one of those things she'd never say. But still, one can hope, no?  
  
warning: SLASH. H/D.  
  
  
~~silencio  
  
His touches burned, though all he had of them were memories. Later, he'd look down onto his stomach and his arms and his inner thighs, looking for evidence, but there was none. He felt them still, ghost brands, flaming reminders. His breath was heavy and hot in his ear, against his mouth. He'd stand in the cold morning shower, unable to keep from shivering, his skin over-sensitive, raw and seeming to anticipate the release that never came. He wasn't brave or witty or resourceful-- he was barely himself. In fact, it seemed as if it all had next to nothing to do with him. It was his skin. Burning up, spreading in circles, overlapping and eating more and more of his flesh. It sat like a lump in his throat. To deal with it, he looked straight ahead, but he didn't see. He was ready to give in except he no longer knew what it was he'd be giving in to. Without provocation, without any reason at all, he'd be listless and breathless and flushed. He had to stop, lean against the wall, get his bearings, resist slipping into a fantasy, his mind aching for even an imagined haven, now. He couldn't allow it, yet it was all he wanted.   
  
All Harry wanted was to forget. Just to feel his lips burn, the sweet abandon washing over him, his limbs weakening and that delicious, heady languor stealing over every muscle. Just to slide his arms slowly around Draco's neck, kissing him slowly, thoroughly. Just to let his hands wiggle their way inside his pants, teasing, ghosting ever-closer, but not quite settling over the other's heat, playing with the cooler folds and crevaces. His fingertips tingling as he traced them lightly across the other's flank. Smiling against the other's neck, letting out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. In a suspended, breathless moment, realizing this was enough. Just being this close. Smelling Draco, the sweat and heat and subtle musky essence of him, that hint of honeysuckle and lavender and maybe a bit of citrus, feeling him quiver under his lightest touch, his skin only as far away as a flick of the tongue. It was wrong and doomed, not to mention stupid, but leaning against the cold stones of a Hogwarts corridor, Harry couldn't for the life of him remember why he believed that so fervently. If indeed he did. His righteousness seemed a tad too forceful, too desperate. Since when did he need to reassure himself of his cause? And since when did he actually start hoping he was wrong? Harry was afraid to speak, almost, since he believed one thing in the morning, and completely another thing by night, when he could've screamed for Draco if he didn't clap a hand over his mouth. Best to err on the side of safety, and not say anything.  
  
The words curdled anyway, dying stillborn in his throat. He couldn't force even the usual comebacks and taunts past the huge lump seemingly in permanent residence there. They were both silent, these days. If they did say anything, it wasn't infused with any meaning, but somehow those around them knew to leave them to their thoughts. They didn't look at each other. Harry wasn't sure what he was thinking of, his head was fuzzy, and if an unnecessary thought did surface, like a startled carp, he made sure to drown it, somewhat viciously. He was feeling fine, really. Better than fine. In his dreams, he couldn't see anyone's face-- he couldn't see his face. He could feel the hand, which was usually touching his, tentatively, though unwilling to let go.   
  
"Let go," the voice whispered.  
  
He ignored it, but the voice was all around him, it seemed to be coming from inside him, now. He no longer knew if his internal dialogue was directed at Draco or at himself. When he got angry, it was Malfoy, and the second he felt weakened, it was his own traitorous voice humming in the back of his head. A part of him thought he was missing something-- a part of him thought it didn't matter. None of it mattered. He'll be out in a few months. It'll all be over. Any time you could pretend you're having a new beginning, endings come easily as breath to lungs greedy for air. It felt good to let go. Right. They weren't enemies, and they weren't friends-- they were no longer who they were. Harry was all too eager to no longer be the Boy Who Lived, and the Boy Who Was Envied, and the Boy Who Was Expected to Win. Especially since all of these things were hanging by a thread at any given moment, dependent on his next step not taking him into an abyss he couldn't get out of, this time.  
  
Sometimes, he'd have dreams where he was staring into a mirror, and all he could see would be Malfoy's pale, pointed face, looking at him with an expression he couldn't read no matter how hard he tried. And he'd look closer, and closer, and feel more and more frustrated, feeling a heady return of the old hatred, his very blood boiling, just seeing those calm grey eyes, staring him down. And if he looked away, and if he screamed and threw the mirror to the ground, and if he blinked and closed his eyes, it didn't matter. He was still looking at him, and he didn't need to say anything, all the mean hateful things he said, and never said, and could've said, were crowding inside Harry's head, struggling for dominance, asserting their irresistible presence.  
  
"I hate you!" he screamed, finally, his voice seeming hoarse and unused to his own ears. "I hate you, I hate you, I hate you! Go the fuck away, you bastard! Can't you ever stop haunting me? What will it take, Malfoy? What will it take?"  
  
He blinked, and came back to himself, and it was just a mirror, and the dream was all too real, still, but the mirror reflected nothing but his wild, red-rimmed eyes and his messy hair. Harry looked around, cautiously. He was in luck, and there was no one about, though he wasn't quite relieved, since it was disturbing to find oneself flashing bits of one's dreams so intensely that you couldn't tell what was real and what wasn't for a moment.  
  
He frowned irritatedly at the ensuing silence ringing in his ears, and made a face, disgusted with himself. He couldn't believe he'd sunk so low as to yell at himself and pretend it made any difference. Soon he'd be talking to himself and doing crossword puzzles aloud. It wasn't a long road, Harry knew. He was high-strung lately. By effort of will, he unclenched his hands, and breathed deeply, in and out. Finally, he sighed, resigned. It wasn't like he could do anything. Might as well try a different tack.  
  
"I love you, Malfoy," he said, and giggled. Soon, the giggles were guffaws, and he was shaking, and laughing so hard he was crying, having to hold himself up by throwing his arm against the wall. "I love you!" he cried and laughed harder. It was so ridiculous, so completely and utterly ridiculous, it was really quite hilarious. Beautiful, even, in its wrongness. He sank bonelessly down the the floor, sliding down the wall to end up in a heap, his head in his hands. He was smiling like a madman, his eyes stinging and his smile looking strangely like a grimace of pain, but he felt a strange sense of release. It was funny how he wanted to land just one good punch straight on his jaw, and never to see him again, and to hold him tight, his lips brushing against the other's temple, to feel his heartbeat against Malfoy's as he finally slept-- all at once. There was no comfort to be had except in accepting the insanity. Telling him he loved him was as good as the opposite, for all the change it would bring. Harry knew Malfoy had no idea what he meant by that, really. The hate or the love-- neither of them understood it enough to even believe themselves when they said the words. Harry chuckled softly. Nothing meant what it should, in the mad world they created between them. Perhaps that was the attraction. Sure enough, -something- was the attraction, because one way or another, he was drawn to the site of his worst defeat over and over again.  
  
He wanted to breathe it against Malfoy's lips, just as both of them were about to fall asleep, and just as they were waking up, softly, imperceptibly, to carve it on his skin, to have the other wear it, like a bracelet, Harry's need and hopelessness wrapped around him like a physical thing. I love you, he would say, just before either of them was awake. I don't even believe myself, and I don't even believe you, and I'm not really saying this, but I need to say it anyway. He would say all this with three words, barely breathed against soft, warm skin, smooth and full and pliant as he sucked the other's lower lip into his mouth, his teeth closing around it as he sighed. Licking at Draco's mouth, he'd forget what he was saying, as he watched his breath hitch even though he still slept. He would groan and shift closer, seeking more and more electric skin, seeking that precious moment when thought was extraneous and unnecessary and impossible.  
  
And then Draco's eyes would open and he would look at him, and not try to say anything, just look at him. His tongue would dart out to lick at Harry's upper lip, all the while wearing an intent, serious expression, his gaze never wavering, no moan or sigh escaping him. And Harry would feel chagrined and foolish about his earlier internal battles, his need for words and reassurances and things that made sense, his need to remain who he always was and yet run away from it. The future was a strange, malleable concept, apparently, because just looking into Draco's eyes was enough to see exactly as much as he needed to of his fate.   
  
If he could have that quiet, still moment, Harry thought, he could let go. They could stop talking at each other, and stop pushing at each other, and stop trying to always keep one step ahead. He thought he wanted nothing more to do with any of it, but maybe all he wanted was silence, and that wasn't quite what he thought it was. Maybe silence was freedom from either "I love you" or "I hate you". Maybe it was just looking into the other's eyes, and letting the unspoken things lie down and rest in the moonlit paths opening between them. Words were their downfall, it seemed. The only truth to be found lay in hiding, slipping behind the last word, waiting at the trailing edge of the last breath. Harry wanted to believe it. He didn't have to, he knew. He could just turn away, or at least pretend he could, for awhile longer, just to prove that he would never be the one to break. It will never be him. Never.  
  
Harry couldn't imagine any of this actually happening while they could still talk nonsense at each other. If he wanted change, he'd have to make it happen. If silence is what it took, silence is what they would have. He had a vague memory of a potion that had the results he was looking for-- at last, not falling prey to the many irritants in Snape's class this past year seemed worthwhile. All he had to do was find a way to slip some into Draco's drink, and then get him alone. The rest should take care of itself. Harry closed his eyes, suddenly feeling quite drained. He didn't know why he still bothered, except that completely unreasonable, stupid feeling, that wasn't going away, which he couldn't name. He wouldn't name. It had no name. He nodded to himself. He was simply trying something, his last chance, his need to be quite sure in his conviction that this -was- quite impossible. He was right. Of course he was... but it didn't hurt making sure. He started making a list of needed ingredients, in his head. He didn't notice himself smiling, and neither did he notice that finally, he wasn't thinking of the things he was trying not to think of. Harry Potter was embracing the contradictions, and crossing the rifts between. He wasn't leaving anymore, but he was finally letting go.  
  
~~  
  
Harry didn't know how he'd gotten outside. It was cold, though, and his fingers were getting too stiff to move, and the birds were louder than his heartbeat in his ears. He was breathing fast, unaccountably anxious. His resolve seemed to be quickly melting, even as the water froze on the ground. He couldn't really believe he did it. He'd acted just like Draco had used to, before. He had to resist the urge to look back, check again and again that indeed, Draco was not about to follow. Draco would never follow. Even if he said something that made him think of him being under Harry's power, it was really just a game to him. A game he played with himself. He didn't even need Harry there, to be the antagonist or the lover. He was there as a symbol, for Draco as well as the rest of the wizarding world-- to be wanted or hated. Or both. Harry's toes were starting to go completely numb, as well as his nose and his chin. He didn't care. He was angry again.  
  
"Don't you like me this way," Draco had demanded, a week before the end had come. "Don't you get off on this, Potter?"  
  
He had charmed his wrists and ankles to be bound to the bed. His stare was challenging, cold, but the evidence of his arousal was all too obvious.  
  
"I just want you how you are," he'd said, then. Draco had laughed, without much humor.  
  
"Just keep telling yourself that. Even I don't want me how I am, not like this, not with you."  
  
"Why the hell does this have to be so difficult?" he'd asked, not for the first time. He just wanted... he just wanted to kiss that smirk off his mouth.  
  
"What did you expect from me, Potter? Cupcakes?"  
  
Harry had sighed. "I can never win, with you, can I."  
  
"You said it, not me," Draco had drawled in his old tone, attempting smugness but not quite reaching it.  
  
"I don't want to win anymore. You win. So what do you want?"  
  
"I don't know," Draco had said, finally. "Isn't that just hilarious? I don't know. To be inside you. Isn't that good enough anymore, -Potter-?" He said it as a taunt, but Harry knew he was really just being frustrated with his own chosen bondage. His eyes, hooded, emitting swell after swell of sweltering heat waves.  
  
At that point, Harry had pretty much growled in frustration and launched himself at Draco, lifting his restraints, starting a sort of casual scuffle they'd engaged in now and again, just to break the tension. It didn't really work, and they ended up breathless and turned on and somewhat confused as to why they just couldn't seem to have a straight fight anymore-- it just didn't work anymore. Anytime they touched, sparks went off and it's like they forgot themselves and only remembered their need for skin to skin contact, right that second. Not that Draco was complaining. Harry, on the other hand, was always furious with himself.  
  
Harry had begun to distrust sex, much as he enjoyed the release of it. It just prolonged things and made them more painful. Like at this moment, when supposedly he should've been resolute and almost vindicated, though he'd made no victory, all he wanted was that hot breath against his mouth, that hand clutching at the back of his neck, those teeth nipping at his bottom lip, almost breaking the skin, needling him with little jolts of pain that went straight down to his center. Harry couldn't stop the rush of sensations even imagining these things caused. He couldn't stop the helpless need he still drowned in, the desire to run as fast as he could, the way he came, the only thing on his mind being, would he catch Malfoy still where he left him. Would he be there? Would he have wanted him, if he'd just forgone words altogether, and rushed him? Would he have responded without any reservations? Could they hold still in that moment, distill it somehow, purify it. Could they exist in those fleeting minutes when they were utterly united in a singular desire? Did that even mean anything?  
  
It didn't matter, Harry thought. It didn't matter, because they couldn't, they couldn't make that moment stay any more than they could make any moment stay, of resolution or of weakness, of passion or of apathy. They had mapped out this place well. A no-man's land, nowhere one could live, nowhere one could settle, but they had. They'd settled here, where there was nothing for them, not air to breathe, not ground to support them. Everywhere you looked, it was the same bleak nothingness. Draco had almost gotten used to it, but Harry still felt a fresh surge of indignation and rage at his powerlessness every time he paid any attention to it.  
  
Harry blew on his fingers, trying to regain feeling. Finally, realizing he was standing around, not moving, in the snow, he turned to head back to Hogwarts. At the last minute, he changed his mind, and laid down in the snow. He stared up into the sky, grey and featureless and completely unreadable, just like Draco's eyes. He moved his arms around in semi-circles, making his snow angel without much thought. He was quite surprised when he saw booted feet standing right by his head. Blinking the sun out of his eyes, as he tried to look upwards to see who it was, he was greeted by a familiar droll voice. "Having a nice morning ice-bath, Potter? I know I get you excited, but this is still probably going a bit over-board."  
  
Harry sniffed, too tired and deeply upset this time to offer up a sporting reply.  
  
"What, no gems of Potter wit to share with me?"  
  
"What the hell are you doing here, Draco?"  
  
"Oh, just passing by. Slytherin business, of course. Fancy running into you."  
  
"Yeah, of course. Just passing by."  
  
"Oh, don't be so melodramatic, by Merlin, you'll age before your time. Worse than me."  
  
"Am I, really?"  
  
"See? That's what I meant. There you go again."  
  
Harry pushed himself up to his feet again, staring intently into Draco's eyes, shadowed and swaddled in impossibly dense, foggy grey. "Let's not argue, please," Harry said, dully.  
  
"Sure. I'm all for that. Not argue. Right. Of course."  
  
"Oh, don't patronize me, you know what I mean, Malfoy."  
  
"Oh yeah, of course I know. You'd made sure to tell me, haven't you."  
  
"I have."  
  
Inwardly, Harry was thinking, unbelievable. Let down my guard for one second, and this happens. Someone up there must really dislike me, he thought sourly. He's just an insufferable git like I always thought. What's gotten into me? Stupid, heartless bastard. Harry raised his wand and leveled it at Draco, unsmiling.  
  
"No more of this. No more, Draco." He summoned all his strength and conviction, thrusting it into this one moment. Five minutes later, he'd be a quivering mass of pain and regret, but right now, he would show Malfoy. He didn't know what he'd show him. But he'd show him.  
  
Draco's face twisted and his lip curled in that familiar way, almost reassuring. "So, that's how it's going to be, eh, Potter?" He drew out his own wand and stood there, caressing idly along its length. Harry swallowed.   
  
"Are you sure you wouldn't want to get some other use out of my wand?" Draco said, in a low, drawling voice, sending prickles down Harry's neck.  
  
"Fuck you," Harry spat, viciously, all of a sudden. "This is just a fucking game to you, isn't it?" He was beginning to feel a good shouting match coming on, and he was glad of it. This was better. He understood this. They knew all about this.  
  
"Yeah, and I'm winning."  
  
Neither could tell, later, who cast the first spell, who yelled the first curse. Harry went on auto-pilot, his mind in the same careful trance as when he had a surprise test in Transfiguration, say. He couldn't consciously do this faster than Malfoy, so he relied purely on instinct as usual.   
  
"Silencio Totalus," he yelled, faster than he could think, and before he could do much other than blink in surprise, Draco had fallen to one knee on the ground-- rendered, literally, speechless. Harry couldn't bear to look at him. He took off at a run, feeling guilty and heartsick and very much the loser. He couldn't take it, couldn't take fighting him. He couldn't take any of this anymore. He was repeatedly discovering that when it came to Draco Malfoy, all his reserves had been tapped. He was exhausted. He had so many battles ahead of him, he knew, and this did not bode well, but he simply could not spare another ounce of his strength for any of these confrontations. It simply took too much out of him-- more than anything else. He'd rather fight Voldemort, one on one, any day. That just took speed and luck and cunning. This... he didn't know what it took. But he knew that inevitably, he failed.  
  
He'd run all the way to the Great Hall this way, without thinking. Bursting in, eyes wild, several somewhat embarrassing marks of no-holds-barred magical combat written all over his skin, he met Ron and Hermione's bewildered, concerned stares. "It's nothing," he said, sitting down, looking with apparent fascination at the swirls of wood within the table. "It's nothing. Just Malfoy." He should've known. Getting what he wanted always seemed to turn out to be its very opposite.  
~~ 


End file.
